The Phantom's Labyrinth
by Kates
Summary: Said the ingenue, 'Goblin King, Goblin King, wherever you may be, take this horrid life of mine far away from me.' Said the masked Goblin King,'I will.' A Labyrinth & POTO crossover.
1. Underground I

Underground

_It's only forever—  
It's not long at all!  
Lost and lonely—  
That's underground,  
Underground…_

* * *

_He stood next to the dusty marble table, resting his palms against the pale surface, leaning far over as he gazed with intense eyes into the glowing glass orb before him…_

The light that emanated from within its seemingly fragile core was piercingly bright and colorless, curling in wisps within the glass.

Slowly, a picture formed.

He could see her world now. He could look down upon it, and glimpse _her_ from time to time. Now he could fondly and longingly watch the changes that came over her face as she went about her day, unknowing of him and his world. Deep within his shadow-infested soul, his one and only, _greatest_ consolation was that his eyes and mind could travel with her, even though his flesh-and-blood self could not.

_But…_

H smirked, and pushed himself away from the table and turned around, in one fluidly graceful movement, his floor-length robes catching and swirling in the dust that lay in a thick film upon the marble floor.

_That will all soon change._

He had waited so impossibly long for this…

For _her_.

Millennia—_or had it been more?_—had passed since the beginning of his imprisonment in _this_ world, while mere years had passed in the other. Time sped by in that other world…her world…but he was trapped by the powers that governed him and his kingdom, and he could not leave the prolonged eternity of his world for long.

Even so...

He _had_ waited with relative composure all the while, hoping against hope that the time would come when she would be his, when she would at last come to him and end his loneliness, his unbroken solitude. Oh yes, he _had_ been patient! He had waited through the long years, biding his time. He had not broken any of the solemn rules that bound his world, and his magic, together…yet. He had been lenient and watchful. But patience and other such qualities were vastly overrated, he had determined long before.

And he was not, by nature, a patient man.

Slowly now, he let his eyes travel across the cavern that he stood within: a royal chamber of peerless gothic grandeur. Its ceiling was like that of a cathedral, vaulted and tall, made of excellently carved stone that was beautiful and cold. But though this place was undeniably exquisitely elegant and pleasing to the eye, it was veiled in dust and neglect—

As was the rest of his domain.

Here was silence. Here was loneliness, and regret; bitterness, and the remainders of secrets long kept, dreams long denied. No one ventured this far into his domain for many centuries. No one but _him_, of course.

_It will all change, very, very soon,_ he thought.

Then, gathering his darkly shimmering robes around him, he scowled, without knowing why, at the spiraling patterns in the dust on the floor once again—

And vanished into the shadows of his realm.

* * *

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**A note from the authoress:** _"Once again, she returns..."_

Yes, my dear phriends: 'tis I, Kates, and I bring you, now,a new tale full of magic, wonder, and beauty, of darkness and passion and dreams, wit and mystery, danger and fun. Hope it makes amends for my long absence.

So, yes...this is a Labyrinth/Phantom of the Opera crossover, as is probably obvious to any of you who are familiar with both of these truly MARVELOUS stories. There were just too many similarities between Phantom and Labyrinth for me to resist, and I thought we could all use a good new crossover story. Interpret this, then, as my attempt at being original in this day and age of Phandom. From now on, I think I shall assume the place of reigning Queen of the Crossover Phan Phics. Hehehehehe. Now, whether you should be afraid and run away, or remain where you are and hang on for this wild ride (and it WILL be wild, I promise you that!) is a choice that I leave to you.

If any of you have read my other crossover phic, _Le Fantome et le Belle_, you will be familiar with the format of this story; for those of you who are not, I shall explain. This tale will feature the events, words, and basic characters of those in the movie, _Labyrinth_, but the characters from Phantom will "play" the roles of the characters in this story. To translate...

Erik, the Phantom of the Opera - Jareth, the Goblin King.

Christine Daae - Sarah Williams.

Etc., etc., et al. Hope this explains things to you a bit.

Anyhow, please feel free to ask any more questions that you might have as the story goes on; I tend to write in such a way that everything is clear to ME, but is unclear to my readers. Call it an absent-minded habit of a silly phan girl. The cast list for this phicwill follow soon, with characters added on as the story progresses. I shall try to update this as much asI possibly can when I don't update for a while, though, blame it on Starbucks. 'Cuz that's where I work, and it's trying to eat my life. Ugh. Oh! And for those of you who are interested, I am planning on going back through _Le Fantome et la Belle_ and editing it, and then reposting it here, and possibly with new chapters and/or scenes. Just thought I'd give you a warning.

Now...let my opera begin!

(Here Kates grins impishly at you,and disappears with a swirl of her cloak, leaving behind only a sparkling shower of black and violet magic dust: which smells, curiously enough, of fresh-cut roses and sandalwood...)

PS The lyrics used at the beginning of this chapter belong to their respective writers...David Bowie, I believe...and certainly not to Kates. She is merely borrowing them for the sake of her phan phic.


	2. Trifling Games of Make Believe

Chapter One:

Trifling Games 

Of 

Make-Believe

_The opera house was calmly silent that day—the day in which Christine Daae found the book, mysteriously buried beneath a heap of old costumes… _

It was close to the winter holidays, then.

There was next to no one at the Opéra: the people of the world being occupied instead with busily preparing for the upcoming winter festivities and such. There was Christmas and the New Year to look forward to. Almost everyone was gone from the Opera Populaire—everyone from the reigning diva, La Carlotta, to the manager, Monsieur Lefevere, to the lowliest stagehand who could afford to leave. Those who couldn't leave remained and kept one another company.

Among those who had remained for the holidays—chiefly—a few scattered stagehands, the concierge, watchmen, and around fifty members of the chorus and the corps de ballet. In command of them all was Mme. Giry: the formidable black-garbed ballet-mistress. It was she who kept everything in order, and practically single-handedly, at that!

Of course, no one had ever doubted that she was incapable of running the Opéra in the M. Lefevre's absence. Mme. Giry was not one to be trifled with, and even the nefarious chief of the flies, Josef Buquet, knew that it was very unwise to cross her. The ballet mistress's icy rage was legendary.

Mme. Giry's primary concern, however—_and_ her only pride and joy, though she had never openly admitted it—was the girls in the corps de ballet.

They were a young and worrisome set, ranging in age from little twelve-year-old Jammes to graceful and twenty-eight-year-old La Sorelli, who was the Opera's prima ballerina _and_ famous mistress of the fabulously wealthy Comte Philippe de Chagny. Mme. Giry had trained and cared for almost every one of them from when they had been very young. There was not one whom she did not know well—after all, she had nursed most of them through influenza, colds, and broken hearts. She did not pretend to play mother to them; she was a severe woman whose character was reflected in the unrelieved black of her garb.

But they _were_ her responsibility to look after and care for, and she took her responsibilities very seriously.

Thus it was a wonder to seventeen-year-old Christine Daae, Meg Giry—Mme. Giry's own daughter—and eight of the other ballet girls that they were permitted to leave the dormitories that day and roam about the more remote portions of the opera house. It was not Mme. Giry's habit to let them very far out of her sight, but she was feeling ill that day, and her headache was so intense that she wished to be left entirely alone.

Christine was the eldest of the group.

An orphan of only three years, she was a pale wisp of a girl with alabaster skin and mounds of silky, spiraling dark hair: her dark brown eyes were large and wide in her delicately thin, almost elfin face, and to the world, she was perpetually silent and grave. Only when she was in the company of the other ballets girls did she come alive with laughter and chattering, her wan skin flushing and her eyes sparkling—but when she was alone, or in public, her eyes grew distant and tainted by dark sadness. She was lonely, and still mourned the death of her beloved father.

But she had grown adept at hiding her grief.

She had been unanimously but wordlessly elected to be leader of their foray group at the beginning of their exploration of the gigantic opera house. It was she who led them from room to room and down numberless darkened corridors and winding stairwells that were lit by only the grey light of the rainy sky outside, slanting in through the angular black-paned windows. The girls giggled and whispered as they walked: shivering and clinging to one another in excited dread that was likely both pretended and real.

The opera was rumored to be haunted…

But Christine did not believe in ghosts.

She opened creaking doors and peered into the shadows that lurked in the corners of long-unused closets, walked with her light dancer's gait into abandoned garrets swathed with cobwebs. Pitch darkness held not even the faintest appeal in her mind—in fact, it rather frightened her—but shadows, supernaturally inhabited or no, did not unnerve her.

The blow of her father's death had opened her eyes to the coldness of reality at a stage in her life when she was still very young, and she had acquired a practicality and seriousness that was not meant to be found in young girls. She had tasted the bitterness of loss. In death, her father had taken a part of her soul with him into his grave. But there was another reason why Christine did not fear the shadows…

_She had an Angel to watch over her._

_

* * *

__Creeeeeeak!_

"Oh! Christine! Come—look! It's an old prop room! Oh, let's go inside and look at all the old costumes: oh, do let's!"

Meg Giry's enthusiastic outburst brought Christine suddenly out of her silent contemplation of the rain that was falling outside the window that she stood beside. Acknowledging that she had heard, the dark-haired beauty looked up, and moved her head to the side, turning her face towards her friend. Meg waved her hands animatedly, gesturing the open doorway behind her.

Through that doorway, Christine glimpsed what was only a small corner of a room that was surely enormous. It was one of the expansive attics that loomed in the highest floors of the Opéra, and was quite apparently the most utilized storage space for all the props, costumes, and other random objects that were currently unwanted down below. She looked into the faces of the other girls, and saw excitement and interest lighting their young faces.

Sighing, she reluctantly left her contemplation of the rain.

"All right," she said, coming away from the window. "Very well—let's go inside, and see if there is anything within that we haven't come across yet. Come along now: you first, Jammes. Everyone goes—no stragglers, do you hear me, Genevieve? I wouldn't want to leave you out here, and then come back only to find you off in some corner with Paul! Inside, now…"

One by one, the ballet girls passed through the door: bursting into the long-silent room and filling it with life, noise, and colour. As they all quickly spread out, losing no time whatsoever in running off into the deepest recesses of the room, Christine stepped through the doorway, taking a long moment to stare around herself. Her dark eyes scanned over every inch of the chamber, making note of every detail.

The immense chamber had a vaulted ceiling that was pierced here and there by thick glass skylights; its floorboards were wide and creaked noisily as she trod upon them. Shadows ranging in shade from pale iron grey to the most unbroken ebony were everywhere, and the air was thick with the scent of faded perfumes, greasepaint, and dust. There were thick cobwebs everywhere. Standing in uniform rows was rack upon rack of old costumes. There were enormous brassbound trunks, hat stands, and numerous chests of drawers. There were baskets and old chairs, painted papier mache horses and old ballet slippers, feathered masks and pots of long-dried face-paint.

Meg stood silently at her friend's side for a moment, and then commented, in a quiet and almost reverent tone—

"It makes me remember…just how old this place really is."

Christine had no words to reply to that immediately; she simply continued to look, mesmerized by the mystery and age of her surroundings. There were memories in this room—the magic of time long-gone—and she could almost hear the many echoing voices of the past in her mind's ear.

_Time past…_

_Time lost…_

_Time forgotten…_

She stepped across the dusty floorboards, only vaguely noticing the delighted exclamations and pattering footsteps of the other girls as they ran about, discovering all that lay within the seemingly boundless attic.

A clock with elegant filigree hands and a yellowed face stood beside a clothing mannequin, which had a drooping feathered boa—the colour of which might have once been magenta and orange—laid over its shoulders. She reached out, and delicately brushed her fingertip over the broken glass of the clock's face: her dark eyes flickering across the jaggedly shattered surface.

Then she spoke.

"You can feel their whispering…" she murmured.

Meg shivered, and rubbed her hands over her upper arms, hugging them tightly to herself. She looked slightly worried now. "It's so quiet up here, Christine!" she said. "No one could possibly hear anything from up here—the world could be falling down below us…and we wouldn't know it!"

Christine chuckled slightly, and turned towards the younger girl.

"Of course we would know, my own dear Margot!" she replied. "We would simply be the last to fall."

"Oh, you!"

And Meg stamped her foot slightly, without realizing it, in all likeliness. She was a child, even younger than Christine, and many of her little girl's mannerisms had not faded from her yet. Christine let her wry smirk widen into a sparkling smile, and she laughed as Meg rolled her eyes and tossed her blonde curls, exasperated.

"I'm going to go look down this row of the costumes!" she announced. "Perhaps they might have one of La Carlotta's masquerade gowns stored here—from 1830?"

Christine burst into a fit of giggles in spite of herself.

"Meg Giry, you are preposterous in your suggestions! Go look at your costumes—_I'm_ going to go try to find myself a good book."

Meg scrunched her nose up in bewilderment.

"Only you would think to look for a book in an old prop room, Christine! _I_ may be preposterous…but _you_ are an idiosyncrasy!"

Christine sank into a deep, swelling, mock-regal curtsey.

"And I am proud of it," she answered.

Meg rolled her eyes again, this time with a long-suffering shake of the head accompanying the action, and flounced off in the direction that she had indicated with a wave of her hand a moment earlier. Christine watched her disappear into the rows of costumes, and stood by herself in the quiet for a moment.

Then she turned, and went off on her own search.

* * *

As she passed down the crowded sort of aisles that were formed by the racks that the costumes were hung on, Christine caught a glimpse of her companions from time to time. One moment she would see the hem of a pale skirt whisking around a corner, or a flying lock of hair as its owner went running by. She heard their laughter and prattling, heard the floorboards creaking and groaning under both their feet and hers. The rain continued to patter down onto the slates of the roof overhead, and she heard her own breathing with an almost crystalline clarity. 

But there was nothing else.

_So much for a** haunted** opera house,_ she thought, with a vaguely sad sensation settling over her mind as she reached out and ran a gentle hand down the crinkled chiffon sleeve of an old medieval-themed gown. Its colour had probably once been vibrant and exotic to look upon: the shade of sunset, perhaps.

Now it was faded and dusty.

The musty air was beginning to hang close in her lungs, and her throat felt itchy. Exploring in attics was all a very novel idea…but not very enjoyable in reality, when one considered all of the side effects that came along with it.

Leaving the costume, she continued on her walk.

Within moments, she reached a dead end in the row, and turned the corner: there, she found yet another aisle to walk down, as lifeless as the next. Decades of opera history passed before her eyes, putting her in a daze.

_What kind of life has this place known…? I feel entirely infant-like, alongside such greatness…_

Then her thoughts halted.

She stopped.

Her head turned; she looked down, to the side.

There, beside her, was a large pile of costumes: obviously not valued enough to merit a place on the racks, or the person who had placed them there had simply been in a great hurry. Perhaps they had been alone when they had come up to the attic to store the costumes. She wasn't afraid of being by herself—but the shadows _were_ a bit ominous.

On top of the costumes…was a curious mask.

Kneeling down, she looked at it closely.

It was plain in comparison to the other face-coverings that she had seen in the opera before then: all white, without even a bit of a harlequin pattern around its single eye-hole. And, apparently, it would only cover one half of its wearer's face. Christine hesitantly stretched her fingertips towards it.

The mask's one glaring eye-hole was dark and peculiarly angled—as if to reflect in its contours the frown of its wearer—and she felt almost daunted by its presence. She felt her breath hitch in her throat as her sensitive fingertip pads touched the smooth surface of the mask. It was cold, and hard. She picked it up, and held it carefully in both her palms. Hesitating for a moment, she lightly tapped one fingernail against its surface.

_Chink-chink!_

So it _was_ glass—porcelain, to be more precise.

Christine set the mask down, regarding it thoughtfully as it rested serenely, almost regally, atop the pile of costumes. It looked as if it had a right to be there—as if it owned its place, and was accustomed to holding its court. Somehow, it made her feel as if she'd stumbled across some great myth that she shouldn't have seen—such as the legendary Chiron enjoying the midday in the Seine River, or Queen Mab and her faery retinue sporting in the glades of the Bois. She didn't know why. She—or part of her, at any rate—didn't want to know why.

Suddenly, she felt very content to leave the mask where it was: to get up, and walk away from it, turning her back on its secret past and its glaring eye.

And she almost did.

But then, tarnished gold glimmered at her: burned into the aged caramel leather of a book spine.

A book.

Christine felt her skin break out into ripples of coldness; ice ran down her spine, and into the roots of her hair, making her scalp feel as if it were crawling. But she reached down, past the mask, past the costumes…until her fingers closed around what was undoubtedly, unconditionally, unabashedly a book.

It was a rather large book.

Still silent and apprehensive, she drew the heavy book out of its place in the open trunk: pulling it forth from the pile of costumes. She sank back from her kneeling position, curling her legs beneath her, and held the book in her lap, pillowed amongst the masses of her skirt of thick navy wool. She stared at the words emblazoned on its cover: her eyes ran back and forth over it, again and again and again.

Instantly, her mind plunged into old, old memories—returning to a time that seemingly buried in her past, when her life had been all about a girl named Little Lotte, who played with her friend in the attic of a cottage by the sea, making up funny little games about goblins and shoes and riddles and frocks. Even now she could hear the painfully beautiful strains of her father's violin and, more importantly, the sound of his voice, telling a story….

And the words on the book said?

"_The Labyrinth_…"

* * *

Cast list!

**Christine Daae**: Emmy Rossum

**Meg Giry**: Jennifer Ellison


	3. Underground II

_Underground_

_It's troubling me, grating me  
and twisting me around…  
Oh, I'm endlessly caving in  
and turning inside out…!_

_'Cause I want it now—  
I want it now—  
give me your heart and your soul!  
And I'm not breaking down—  
I'm breaking out—  
Last chance to lose control…_

_The Goblin King could hear the angry tapping of her infamous ebony cane on the stone floors of his fortress long before she burst into his throne room: her wide, flashing hazel eyes blazing with anger… _

Slowly turning his head on his neck—with his typical graceful economy of movement, languid and nonchalant and completely unaffected by her icy rage—he looked into her face, taking note of the rigidness of her posture, and the two spots of crimson on her high cheekbones.

Yes: she was _quite_ unhappy with him.

"Madame…" he drawled, in an indifferent greeting.

Without even an ounce of respect for her presence, he turned his face away from her and going back to his activity of the moment before—which was idly flicking little bits of magic from his slender, sensitive mage's fingertips, and then shooting them up at the beautifully-painted, vaulted ceiling of the massive throne chamber. The irate elven woman's mouth thinned into a severe and rather dangerous dark red line, and her eyes gleamed with a menacing light that would have terrified a cave troll.

"Milord!"

Her voice rang out, piercing in the silence, and his eyes narrowed even more dangerously than hers behind the stark, ominous black mask that he wore. It covered almost all of his face—the mask—leaving only his lips and chin and a little bit of his forehead showing; and its smooth, gleaming darkness made his mismatched eyes seem to glow with a preternatural inner fire.

He only wore it, she knew, when he was in an exceptionally dark or temperamental mood.

And as he stood up—the lean, elegant lines of his perfect body slowly and gracefully unfolding and elongating before her very eyes—she took an involuntary step back, moving away from him…not that putting any amount of distance between oneself and the Goblin King guaranteed one any safety, however. No, the Goblin King's powers were far-reaching, and rightly to be feared. He had always very much reminded her of an exotic but terrifyingly lethal cobra that she had once seen: driven into a corner, where it rested coiled and hissing in its rage, its fathomless black eyes glittering as it prepared to unsheathe its fangs and deadly poison.

The Goblin King was a prince of the immortal, unblemished and beauty-loving fae people, and he had been exiled to the lost world of the Labyrinth many ages before, as punishment for having been born with an accursed face.

Now he was the veritable fount of power in his world—or rather, the magnetism of his person drew all of the Labyrinth's power to him. He could manipulate the vast maze and its inhabitants at will. With a flick of his wrist, the Labyrinth could change from night to day; its corridors and pathways would twist at his whim, becoming unrecognizable within seconds if he so willed it. He was a most powerful mage—an enchanter of deadly caliber, and not one to waste time considering the fate of anything or anyone who might get in his way.

She had to watch her step.

At that very moment, his bizarre, cursed eyes were staring straight at her: lancing into her mind, and splicing her soul into pieces. She had no time to recoil.

"Why have you come here?"

That was all he asked. There were merely five simple words in his question, yet there was more, so much more, in his tone. She inhaled—_slowly! slowly! he mustn't see!_—and lowered her chin slightly, letting her imperious stance grow infinitesimally more submissive.

When one threatened the Goblin King, one invited him to snatch one's own fate into his gloved hands. And it was no well-known myth that the Goblin King had a very dark sense of humor indeed, especially when it came to idly toying with the very lives of those who dared to cross him. It was best to mind her level of respect.

"I…"

She hesitated, and gathered her words, moistening her lips slightly before she spoke. The air in the throne room was cold, and tasted faintly of copper.

A shiver ran over her skin.

"I…thought…that I saw…the girl…she had a book: a very old, beautiful book that was bound in leather and inlaid with gold—and—its name was…"

But she scarcely dared say it.

The Goblin King smirked at her confusion behind his abominable black mask, stepping to one side of his massive, curving ebony throne. She cursed him for wearing the mask. She could never see his expression within it.

Oh yes, it was quite true: the Goblin King reveled in being an unfathomable and malevolent enigma. Like a young boy, he liked to play games with the world—and, after all, it _was_ his world. He could play games with it if he liked.

"Did you give the book to her?"

She finally asked the question that was burning deep inside her soul: using a low, low tone of voice so that he would not feel confronted. His eyes never left her as he moved behind the throne, with deliberate and dispassionate laziness. The fingertips of his right hand: encased in the glove of black leather that fit him so snugly that it was like a second skin, skimmed lightly along the raised horn-like curves of its headrest, dragging that hand after him as he walked.

Step—step—step—step—halt.

He came to stand at the top of the dais that the throne rested upon, and his darkly gleaming eyes peered down at her through the flickering torch-lit shadows. She felt small and insignificant, being held at the mercy of his sinister and twisted humor, and was irritated with him. He might indeed be the Goblin King—but she would be blasted thrice over before she let him bully her into leaving without having her questions answered. Then he surprised her.

He answered her question.

"No: I did not 'give' it to her…_per se_…no, I merely left it where I was certain that she would find it—but that is all. I did not break the rules, Anrenielle."

"But _you_ will, and soon." she remarked.

And she folded her arms and looked up at the tall man who stood far above her on the dais, looming in the dark. Finally, though, she did allow her severe frown to soften somewhat, becoming an expression of both exasperation and pity—

—For it had to be understood that, within the world of the Labyrinth, the Goblin King had all of the power, all of the riches, all of the control that could be imagined by the finite mind, yet it was really nothing more than an elaborate prison for him.

It had been designed to be a gilded cage.

_They_ had thought that his every want, his every desire and need, was contained within the Labyrinth. _They_ knew nothing. The Goblin King knew why he had been exiled to the Labyrinth from his own world—he knew, and the Labyrinth would never be anything more than a boundless jail cell to him.

"Your highness…"

And she took a step towards him, stretching one hand out to him, as he came down the staircase—walking away from her, and at a decidedly determined angle. He was not in a mind, then, she decided, to listen to her now.

Plead with him, then.

"The girl—she is so young!"

She followed him persistently, the hem of her black silken gown making a shh-ing noise as it swept over the stone floor behind her. The Goblin King would not stop to hear her, however. She tried to blend reason with her begging.

"You know that her father's death is still a fresh grief to her heart—she has no need for goblins and shadows, nor should she be torn from her life as it is now! She should have the chance to grow up…as other girls do! She needs to live—"

"She is _alone_ in that world, Anrenielle!"

And with those snarled words the lord of the Underground whirled around to face her. His sapphire and emerald eyes were blazing angrily behind his mask, his fury causing their gem-tones to burn with a white-green flame. She fell back, cowed by his anger, as he leaned forward, viciously snapping his next words at her.

"Do_ not_ tell me that you have not heard her—that you have not _seen_ her—as she weeps herself to sleep every night!" he hissed. "Do not tell me that you have not taken note of the sadness that is ever present in her eyes! She is alone—she has no one to love her as she ought to be loved! There is not a soul in that world to care for her!"

"She will find her way."

With an incredulous, angered scoffing noise, he whirled: turning his back on her and stalking away. She continued hastily, fearing that he would disappear in a swirl of his cloak and not hear any more from her.

"She is young—she has yet to live. She will grow up soon, and then she will realize that being alone is necessary for her kind, sometimes. She will grow stronger. The world will not defeat her, my lord—even now it sees her only as another of her age and situation and people…and she will rise above her struggles. Taking her away…"

"Don't you see?"

He breathed his question softly in the shadows.

"Anrenielle…can't you see it at all…? She is not _like_ any of the others! I have seen it in her eyes—she has more in her spirit. She _needs_ more!"

_**I** can give her more…_were his unspoken words.

But the elven woman shook her head, slowly.

It could not be so.

"What would you do then, your _Eminence_? Bring her here, and let your goblins frighten her? What would you say to her, once she is petrified by fear? Will you tell her that you brought her away from the world she knew because she belongs here—because she is the missing half of your soul, for which you have been searching for centuries?"

"I will tell her only what I wish for her to hear."

"You would deceive her, then?"

"If she comes here, it will be of her own doing. I do not take anything but that which is freely offered or given to me, Anrenielle! If she comes here, it will be because she has wished herself to me. I know the rules of my world well enough!"

A bitter laugh accompanied this.

"I know that I cannot touch her but through words—until she _wishes_ for me to come to her. She has already dreamed of me for long enough, Madame…once, her father told her stories of me, when she was young…very, very young. They have known of me for ages in that world—my machinations there have grown amazingly well-circulated! I tell one story of my magic, of my world, and to a mere handful of wandering gypsies...and within a hundred years, I am a legend in many lands! She knows of me—and though I may yet be only a figure of legend in her storybooks, she does believe in me. She may not see that the truth is in her mind yet…but her heart knows me. Her heart _will_ know me."

She hesitated.

It was clear that he would argue no further with her on the subject—but she did not wish to leave their discussion where it was. Too much rested on both his determination, and hers. She knew that if he—the Goblin King—was to cross into the other world, and whisk away the beautiful young girl whom they spoke of—

Too much was at risk.

"Your Highness…" she tried, one last time.

"I will say no more," was his dark reply from within the shadows.

In a moment, her elven ears were able to perceive the faintest sound of magic shimmering on the air. Then there was only silence, dreadful as the tolling of a death bell—and within the blink of an eye, Mme. Giry stood alone, once again, just outside the doors of the ballet dormitory.

She listened, with a tired, sad expression on her pale face—her eyes tainted dark with worry and uncertainty—as, within the room beyond, Christine Daae took the center of the group of ballet girls and began to tell them the story of the mysterious Goblin King, and his Labyrinth…

Meanwhile, within the Labyrinth itself, the very much alive and also listening Goblin King stood again over his enchanted mirror, and watched the shimmering changes come over his beloved's face as she, unknowing at all of him and his world, continued to laugh and talk with her friends.

Softly, under his breath, he sang—

_It's holding me, morphing me,  
and forcing me to strive…  
to be endlessly cold within,  
and dreaming I'm alive…_

_'Cause I want it now—  
I want it now!  
Give me your heart and your soul!  
And I'm not breaking down—  
I'm breaking out!  
Last chance to lose control…_

_And I want you now—  
I want you now…  
I'll feel my heart implode…  
And I'm breaking out—  
Escaping now—  
Feeling my faith erode…_

* * *

**A note from the authoress:** The lyrics of the very Phantom-y and Erik-esque song 'Hysteria' are copyright of Muse. 

Oh…and "Anrenielle", in case you hadn't already guessed, is also Mme. Antoinette Giry. How, you ask? You shall learn.

**Mme. Giry**: Miranda Richardson

**The Goblin King**: Haha, I'm not telling you:P But I think you'll be able to guess who he is clearly enough by reading my descriptions of him in this chapter...


	4. Catalyst

**_Chapter Two:_**

**_Catalyst_**

* * *

**__**

_The day started badly…_

Christine awakened that morning feeling entirely, inescapably, and dismally ill. Her head ached, her throat was scratchy and dry, and there was an awful tightness in her neck and across her shoulder blades; her body and mind felt as if they were both entirely devoid of any energy whatsoever. And, to make matters worse, her listless glance out the nearby window told her that the sky was already blanketed in thick grey clouds, which were gradually sending a fine misting rain down upon the land. It had snowed earlier that week—but now that snow had begun to turn into nasty grey slush, no longer fresh, fluffy, and white. It was cold in the dormitories, and frost was at the window.

It was an awful way to begin a day.

Feeling petulant and resentful of the world in general—and for no comprehensible reason—she grudgingly dragged herself out of bed, and began the same ritual that she had performed every single morning of her life since she had come to the opera house. With silent and not just slightly petulant silence, she splashed cold water from the pewter basin onto her face and neck: quickly drying her skin with the rough towel that hung on the peg in the wall nearby. She dressed, slowly and mechanically, as the other girls moved about in sleepy quiet. Then she made her bed, smoothing the coverlets and giving a quick, perfunctory pat to the pillow.

And on her way to the dining hall, she sulked.

She had never before felt so unhappy and—well—simply _out of sorts_, as she did this morning. Every other day of the year, she had been complacent and even demurely _accepting_ in regard to the state of things in her life. She would never enjoy luxury, riches, or privilege. She didn't have a family, and she had precious little time to herself. She was an orphan, and poor, and a woman. She was a lowly ballet tart and chorus member, and had to work as an assistant seamstress in order to make enough money to pay her bills, and essentially keep herself alive.

But—she had accepted this, or so she had thought. She knew all of these things to be true in her life; she knew that there was little she could do to change them. Of course she had always dreamed.

_Don't all little girls dream of castles and clouds and fairy tales?_

Arching russet eyebrows gathering into a puckered frown over stormy amber-flecked eyes, Christine glared at the swirling patterns in the wooden floorboards beneath her feet. Wasn't it useless to dream? She would never be world-renowned. She would never be wealthy. She would never be beloved of someone with a passion unimaginable.

_It's not fair._

That was the first time that that particular thought had ever entered her head. Christine felt a cold chill run through her, twisting in the pit of her stomach, as she paused and thought deeper. It wasn't fair. It really wasn't.

It never had been.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the Labyrinth, the Goblin King watched her in his enchanted mirror, and found himself smiling. And his smile—cold and mirthless, exulting and somehow knowing—broadened as he read the thousand conflicting thoughts that were chasing each other recklessly across her beautiful young face.

She had no idea how transparent her face was, in that moment! She couldn't have hidden a single thought, a single emotion of hers, from him then. He knew precisely what she was thinking and feeling.

And he intended to use it all to his utmost advantage.

The smirk still etched into the exposed portion of his face, he stood back from the mirror, and then strode away from it. He didn't have to stand and watch now to know, for sure, the inevitable truth…

She would be calling upon him soon now.

* * *

The cook had ill-attended the breakfast that morning, and Christine's bowl of lumpy porridge was cold, thin, and runny—and flecked with bits of gritty charcoal. After breakfast, she danced with the corps de ballet, and all went as usual until she nearly collided with another girl, Gisele Pontmercy, in a particularly complicated_fouetté__ rond de jambe en tournant_, at a diagonal movement across the stage.

In the resulting confusion as the two girls attempted to avoid both falling down and dancing out of step, Christine wrenched her ankle and was severely scolded for her distraction—which had caused the mishap—by a disapproving Mme. Giry, and several older members of the chorus.

Then, later that afternoon…

Her book was taken from her.

The culprits in the incident were several of the young and audaciously bold stagehands, who had taken notice of the quiet, dark-haired chorus girl's obvious attachment to the beautiful, leather-bound book. As Christine had been walking back to the dormitories after the day's practicing was over—joining in the chatter and laughter of her group, mostly comprised of her fellow _petite rats_—the villains had sprung their trap. Out of the shadowy recesses of the wings they had pounced, startling the skittish ballet girls, who escaped unscathed into the darkness.

Christine and Meg were cornered, however. Upon recovering from her initial startled shock and realizing what was going on, Meg was livid. And, being the bolder of the two girls, she was entirely unafraid of giving the wicked, laughing boys a piece of her fifteen-year-old mind…

_Green eyes blazing with righteous and indignant fury, Meg Giry rounded on the errant stagehand boys, her hands flying to her hips so that her arms were held severely akimbo. Her jaw jutted out defiantly as she glared at them._

_"Jacques! Etienne! Vachel! Paul! What do you think you are about? Get out of our way this instant, or I shall call Maman on you! Now shoo, you idiots!" _

_Loudly amused laughter came from the boys._

_"Shoo? Or what—you'll beat us?"_

_Meg gritted her teeth, as Christine watched: her dark eyes flared wide with uncertainty and disbelief at her friend's behavior. She could never bring herself to believe even her own senses when she witnessed such fearlessness from the little Giry girl, who stood barely over five feet in height…_

_"If I must," Meg grated out, meanwhile._

_The boys laughed again, and then Jacques—the unruly mob's resident leader—sidestepped the incensed blonde girl. Wordless with fury, Meg immediately spun around and watched in horrified incredulousness as the sixteen-year-old youth plucked Christine's beloved **Labyrinth** neatly and coldly out of her arms!_

_Christine cried out, and threw herself forward, stretching her hand out towards the pilfered article. Pale as a sheet, she begged—_

_"Jacques! Please—please! Give it back!"_

_But he merely grinned at her desperation, striding back to his approving friends with self-assured and triumphant bravado in his gait. _

_"Well—!" said he, "If it's only a **silly** book, then** you** must be a silly girl for reading it, little Daae! Wasting your time on stupid fairy stories, and at your age? Pah! Such a great silly girl! What's so wonderful about them anyway?"_

_At that, Christine tore away from the two boys who had stepped in front of her and Meg whilst Jacques had gone on with his mocking little speech: an inarticulate shriek of rage and desperation issuing from her ruby-red lips. Jacques did not turn until it was too late. By the time he had even begun to recoil, the formerly solemn and docile chorus girl had latched her talon-like fingers onto his arm, and was beating him soundly with one curled and surprisingly hard fist. _

_"You hand that book back to me **now**, you horrid, horrid cretin!" she spat, seething at him like an angered tabby cat. The enraged light in her huge dark eyes was terrible and almost unnatural to see within the shadows. "You ogre! Beast! Stupid boy! What does it matter to you that I read stories! I should box your ears with them!"_

_The onslaught continued, and Jacques hollered to his cronies for their aid—in real, growing fear of the damage that the girl might do to his person—and things might have progressed to an even more chaotic state…_

_But they didn't._

_"__Arrêtez__ Christine Daae and Jacques Rousseau, you will cease your squabbling this instant, or I shall thoroughly cane you both!" (1)_

_In the very next second, a hand that was as firm and inexorable as stone itself grabbed hold of Christine's frail shoulder and Jacque's considerably more sinewy arm, and forcibly separated the pair. _

_Mme. Giry glared Christine, and then Jacques with hot, hot fury in her piercing hazel eyes: her lips were set so that they'd become a mere thin, severe line of dark red, and her arched eyebrows were set into the most terrifying of frowns. She was angry—very angry—and fear of her wrath now burned in the air. The boys, and Meg, fell back and watched: guilt-ridden and petrified that the formidable ballet mistress's baleful eye would be turned on them next._

_But Mme. Giry had seemingly only two souls in the world on her mind at that moment, and they were those of young Jacques Rousseau, and Christine Daae—the latter of whom had not yet ceased to stare murderously at the boy beside her: Mme. Giry's arm his only protection. Mme. Giry looked from Christine to Jacques and back, seemingly speechless with incredulousness and ire. _

_Finally, she spoke. _

_"Good heavens! Your wicked squawking is enough to turn the dead in their graves!" She spat out the words like poison. "I do not even want to know what is going on here! You should be ashamed of your foolish, petty behavior—for shame, fighting like ignorant, uncivilized gamin, in the middle of the opera house's halls! Do you know how many people you have disturbed with your riot! I would have expected better from you both, at your age—especially **you**, Christine Daae!"_

_And Mme. Giry released Jacques, but kept her hand on Christine's arm—though the cold severity of her grip lessened quite a bit. Christine drew back, her own hand moving to clasp her shoulder as if she felt that her skin had been burnt. Her dark eyes never once left Jacques, who hung his head and backed away, red-faced and completely cowed by the ballet mistress, who had vanquished him in front of his friends. _

_"Christine!"_

_Mme. Giry's voice broke the silence._

_And Christine looked at her, at last._

_Something horrible—something dark and twisted and entirely not of that world—flickered for a mere, fleeting fraction of a second in the depths of those huge, onyx-tinted irises, and Mme. Giry's face paled, as her eyes widened…_

**_In fearful recognition, and realization…_**

_Then the flood broke loose from the dam._

_"It's not fair!" she burst out. "You haven't any idea of what they were about, Madame! You don't know anything—none of you do! Not a one of you has a single thought in your piggish heads! You don't understand—**no one** does! I—"_

_Suddenly, she stopped short, her delicate chest heaving as she drew a deep, quivering breath. Time seemed to stand still then, as everyone in the shadowy backstage room stared at the livid girl, not able to even begin to comprehend what was going on. Christine's eyes shone with that same unearthly fire for a moment, but this time, it was there along with the proud independence of a child who had learned to live her life alone. _

_After a tremulous and terrible silence, she said it to them._

_"I** hate** you! **All** of you!"_

_And then she ran._

* * *

Now, Christine sat against the cold wall of the secluded attic where she had first discovered the book that told the story of the magical Labyrinth. Her eyes vacant, haunted, and sad, she stared out at the dingy grey wall, as a heavy rain beat a steady, rhythmic cadence against the windowpanes and roof.

Since the day that she had found it, she had guarded her beautiful leather-bond tome with an almost religious care, keeping it safely ensconced between the mattress and the frame of her bed. And though many of the ballet girls knew that the book was there, they had never touched it. No one had. Yet now it was gone: first arrested by that stupid boy and his friends, and now likely held in duress by Mme. Giry, who was likely so furious with her now that she would never give it back.

_It isn't **fair**…!_

The Labyrinth's story had become—in some strange fashion, in her mind—the only tangible link that she had to her dead father. Charles Daae had told his beloved only daughter the tale again and again, countless times during her childhood: always surrendering to her relentless begging for the tale of the Labyrinth and its sinister yet enthralling master, the Goblin King, with a rueful smile and a bit of a laugh. Even now, when she was alone and unwanted in the world, Christine still remembered the words, knowing them almost by heart. They were ingrained within her soul, like the nuances of some beautiful enchantment in a lost wood.

But the book had been real. The book had been more than mere words, which were not enough to sustain the soul. It had been _real_. Night after night, when the world had fallen deep into the swells of sleep and was dead to the revels of the moon and stars, she had remained awake and devoured the lines and lines of raven-black script etched upon its creamy, age-lined vellum, unable to draw herself away from the magic. The fantastical world held within those pages had captivated her mind, and the intensity of its irresistible pull at her soul touched something deep within her.

A chord of fear had been struck in her, deep and resounding, as her mind felt more consumed by what she would have formerly dismissed as a fairy-tale that had been broken by reality, too many long and unhappy years before.

The Labyrinth pulled at her, invading her thoughts and causing her to see the world around her in an unthinking daze…

_Twisting her dreams…_

Her book was gone. Her happy dream world had been taken from her; the crystalline perfection of her most secret fantasy, in which she was the princess and beloved of the Goblin King…all had been shattered. She was alone again.

As she had always been.

Finally, Christine put her face in her hands and wept.

* * *

The Goblin King caressed one fingertip of his black-gloved hand along the misty, gleaming surface of the enchanted mirror: drawing it along the reflected image of the beautiful young girl's face. Hot, keen anger surged through his veins—anger towards the callous youths who had dared to accost her, and irritation towards Anrenielle for once again insistently meddling in his affairs. He watched as the girl wept, and his heart—black and twisted and inhuman as it was—ached within him.

Yes, he was the Goblin King, and a sorcerer of fey blood.

But he would not abide the torment of his unknowing beloved.

_The object of his obsession must not be made to suffer… _

With painstaking carefulness, he gently traced the curve of the girl's exquisite jaw line, the masses of her spiraling russet-kissed curls, and lastly allowed his hand to linger last and longest on the indentation of her chin just below her full lower lip. If only he could hasten her to saying the words, to wishing herself into his power…

But he would be able to know the euphoria of her delicate, rose-petal beauty soon enough. It wouldn't be long. Soon, he would have her within his grasp, and then he would be able to trace her features with his very own fingertips. Soon, he would never again be forced to content himself with merely _looking_ at her, and wondering despairingly what her glorious tresses would feel like sliding against his leather gloves, or brushing against his chin. She would say the words, soon enough. He was confident of it. Soon, the throne beside his would be taken…

_By his Goblin Queen._

He leaned over, and gazed intensely at the face of the distraught maiden. She was leaning over, huddled against a dingy grey wall, and her long, spiraling locks of ebony-dark had more than half hidden her porcelain-fine features. She was pale—so very, very pale: his perfect, abandoned, and desperate Persephone, starved for affection and craving whatever attentions she could be given, however dark…

_And whomever their master…_

Softly, ever so softly, the words issued from his lips: whispering like a covert, searing summer breeze over a still afternoon—

"Come to me quickly, my beauty…"

_I am waiting for you…_

_

* * *

_

A/N: Reposting this chapter and the next in order to do some minor editing...but the third is rather new!

_(1) "__Arrêtez__! " Thanks to CleverLass for correcting my mistake. 'S been a while since I last really did any studying in French..._

_"...Christine Daae and Jacques Rousseau, you will cease your squabbling this instant, **or I shall thoroughly cane you both!**_

_—The caning line is i__n honour of Mme. Giry of phantom fans . net, because she's the Queen of Caning the Evil, the Unjust, and the Unruly. _


	5. Say the Words!

**_Chapter Three:_**

**_Say the Words!_**

* * *

**__**

She opened her eyes, and stared blankly at the dull grey wall that sat opposite her, looking for all the world like some flat and expressionless, unhelpful and glum giant. Outside, she could hear the rain that still beat away at the windows and the roof. The sharp rattling cadence of the cold, watery deluge had gone unaltered that afternoon, and now the sky had steadily begun to grow darker. There was no sight of the sun—everything was cast in shadow…

It was all so _ugly_.

There was nothing new or surprising in the world, Christine thought, in a moment of unsettling and morbid revelation.

For most of her young life, she had lived in what anyone might have thought to be the most beautiful and exhilarating place in the universe, the Opéra Garnier…but it wasn't as beautiful as everyone thought. It wasn't so very extraordinary. It was a set of four walls and a roof, just like any other structure.

Certainly—it _had_ been brushed over with tacky golden paint and stuck with bits of glass that were made to look like gems. It _had_ been filled, from its beginning, with life and song.

But it was just another building, in the end: a simple gilded artifice constructed by clumsy human hands, filled to its brim with people who would never be anything but ignorant and foolish mortals. None of them were anything out of the ordinary. They all only cared for themselves…only for themselves…

How she hated it all!

* * *

"Christine!"

Small hands pounded—tentatively, at first, and then more insistently—on the door. Christine didn't even blink at the sound of little Meg's voice. Instead, her dark eyes remained focused on the wall, and what she imagined might lie beyond it…

_What could wait, in the dark…?_

"Please, _please_, Christine!" Meg begged.

Christine thought that the younger girl might be close to tears, by the sound of her voice. She said nothing, and did not move.

"Please…speak to me, Christine! Are you all right? Please, Christine—open the door, let me in—I only want to know that you are all right! _Christine_!"

"I am here, Meg," she replied, tonelessly.

She stood up, at last—

But her footsteps took her away from the door, instead of towards it.

Past the foremost stand of old costumes and props Christine glided: the hem of her dark woolen skirt brushing softly against the rough wooden floorboards. She thought that she heard a faint, sad little sniffling noise from the other side of the door.

The normal, agreeable and even-tempered Christine that she _had_ been felt a pang in her heart at treating her dearest friend so harshly. But she was deeply entrenched in the darkness of her own thoughts now, and her mind held no thoughts of anything that was outside of that enormous, shadowy rooms, in which even the silence seemed to echo.

"Would you like to hear a story, Meg?" she asked.

She came to stand before an old, full-length mirror, and gazed morosely into its depths. Her reflection showed the image of a wraith-maiden: a deadly pale siren that a vampire prince might have chosen as his mistress. The cold and silvery light in the room glanced upon her delicately chiseled features—highlighting the perfect, curving cupid's bow of her claret-stained lips and the little dip that shadowed her chin below them, the fine symmetry of her cheekbones. Her eyes seemed dark now…so much darker than before…wide and smoldering with the fury and resentment of her world, a hatred that she had so barely contained…

Until now.

The flared ebony of her vibrantly, malignantly gleaming irises stood out against the incredible pallor of her face, and her skin was entirely devoid of colour, in this light…or perhaps it was _not_ a trick of the light that made it seem so. Perhaps now her skin really _did_ simply lack any colour at all. She felt so cold, and so…_deadened_…

It almost seemed if as anything, even that, could be entirely possible.

_A wraith-queen, in her forgotten, decaying kingdom…_

With this morbid little thought in her mind, Christine turned her face aside—leaving her contemplation of the mirror and the images held within it—and looked around herself. The attic was unaltered. It had not changed in the slightest since the day that she and the little ballet girls had first stepped through its door. And yet…today…she saw it in an entirely different light.

Or, perhaps…

_An entirely different **darkness**…_

She stepped across the creaking floorboards, moving towards one rack where many different costumes hung, quite forgotten by their former owners. Cold and unforgiving eyes scanned across the silk and velvet lines—

Then Christine reached out, and ran one hand down the sleeve of a once-magnificent white ball gown. Somehow, its silk had managed to maintain its colour, and it seemed to shine, with a stark and hopeless defiance, even in the grey light.

Christine pulled it from the rack, and went back to the mirror. She held the gown up against herself, gazing intently at her reflection in the silvery depths of the mirror. Then she spoke.

"I shall tell you a story, Meg…" she said.

_

* * *

_

_Once upon a time there was a beautiful young woman—a princess, they say—who was kidnapped by a band of horrid thieves. And the thieves always made her stay home to mend their horrid stinking clothing, and tend to their horrid noisy brats. They were all stupid, and cruel, and wanted everything for themselves, and the young woman was practically their slave…_

* * *

"Yes…" purred the Goblin King, his dual-toned eyes sparking with maleficent pleasure. He caressed his hand over the glowing orb, stroking the image of the beautiful dark-haired girl as anyone else might have stroked a cat.

_He was so close… _

"Yes…they have mistreated you, haven't they…? You hate them all…they have made you their hopeless Cinderella, and forced you to live upon their rancid ashes…you despise their foul and thoughtless world at the very core of your being. They are stupid…they are witless and ungrateful and undeserving of you, and you know it. Say the words, beloved…simply _say_ the words, and the nightmare will be ended…"

The goblins heard all that was said.

And they shuddered, collectively.

_Soon, their master would have his queen…_

* * *

Falling silent for a moment—pausing in the narration of her story—Christine slowly drew the white silk gown onto her figure, lacing it over her simple dark wool skirt and linen blouse. She looked at herself in the mirror again.

Her hair fell down her back and over her shoulders: wild and unkempt in its masses of spiraling curls, and her skin nearly blended in shade with that of the gown. Its regal Elizabethan-make suited her, with its full long sleeves and wide skirt, its train pooling behind her on the floor.

She seemed to glow in the dull grey light.

_They don't know anything,_ she thought, fiercely. _I am nothing like they have ever known, and they will never understand it. I am alone in this world—yet I could be their princess. I could have all my dreams, if I wanted…_

" 'But what no one knew was this…' " she whispered then, continuing so softly that Meg—crumpled on the other side of the door, in despair of her friend's cold and strange behavior—could scarcely hear her.

_

* * *

_

_But what no one knew was this…_

_The King of the Goblins had fallen in love with the girl, and he had given her certain powers, as proof of his adoration of her._

* * *

In the castle, the sorcerer and his goblins listened, intensely.

The magical barrier between the worlds began to hiss and sizzle furiously: sparking with unimaginable energy, anticipating…

_

* * *

_

_Then, one night, when her captors had been particularly nasty to her, the girl called on the goblins to help her. And they said to her, "Say your right words, and we shall take you away to the Goblin City, and then you will be free!" _

_But the girl knew that the King of the Goblins would wreak a bloody revenge on the thieves, and keep her in his castle forever and ever, away from the light of the sun and her own land. _

_And so she suffered in silence, through many a long month…until one night, when she was worn out by a day of slaving at housework, and hurt beyond measure by the harsh, ungrateful words of her jailers, she could bear it no longer…_

* * *

Christine tossed her head, in mocking defiance: dramatically rolling her pretty eyes, as she said—

"No! No! I mustn't! I _mustn't_! I mustn't say…"

She paused.

"I wish…I wish…"

* * *

"_Listen_!" hissed one of the goblins.

"She's going to say it!" rasped another, yellow eyes glowing.

"Shush!"

A third goblin was straining to hear the girl.

"Listen! She is going to say the words!"

The enormous throne room was already empty: the last bit of movement within it being the swirl of its master's billowing cloak as he swept out the door, into the darkness. His determination left a sulfuric crackling in the air behind him…

* * *

"I can bear it no longer!" Christine avowed: her eyes shining furious and bright. The story was gone, and only her anger and loneliness remained, consuming her. Her next words were extracted from the core of her bleeding heart—

"_Goblin King, Goblin King, wherever you may be—come and take this awful life of mine far away from me!_"

* * *

The goblins looked at one another, and silence fell over the land.

"She didn't say the words…" one of them breathed.

But something was happening: a great power-storm was building in the air, and every last one of the goblins could feel it, vibrating around them with painful intensity—like lightning that was about to strike.

Something had been unleashed…

"_Wait_…!"

* * *

Christine bowed her head, and sank to the ground, the voluminous moonlight-coloured skirts of the gown billowing around her slender form like foaming white wave caps. She could hear Meg sobbing piteously on the other side of the door, and part of her wanted to get up, and end this charade—to simply give in, and admit that she was wrong to behave so childishly, that she hadn't been treated so badly, and that everything was really quite all right, and not wrong at all…

But everything was wrong.

She was _lost_.

A single tear edged out of her eye, and rolled like molten silver down her pristine cheek with the brushing lightness of a butterfly's wing. It splashed onto her hands, as she held them in her lap, uselessly.

"I wish the goblins _would_ come and take me away…right now."

The air in the room was cold.

And then the lights went out.

The encroaching darkness stepped up, behind her and all around her, and swallowed her whole: gently gathering her into its velvet arms.

And in the silent comfort of oblivion…_she knew no more of the world_…


	6. Such a Pity!

_**Chapter Four:**_

_**Such a pity!**_

* * *

**__**

'_What's said is said…'_

Someone was singing to her…no, not quite singing…half singing, and half humming…the tune that his voice intoned so sweetly was strangely familiar to her, as though she had heard it over and over again in times long past…or in a dream…_which_? She didn't know…but she heard…

_There's such a sad love,  
Deep in your eyes, a kind of pale jewel  
Open and closed within your eyes…  
I'll place the sky within your eyes…_

Perhaps she was still dreaming.

It all _seemed_ like a dream. She had never felt so utterly peaceful in life…and only in her dreams had she _ever_ yearned to see the world around herself…and yet found herself completely unable to open her eyes…

The song continued: weaving the gossamer strands of their lilting spell around her, and she sighed, softly.

She didn't want to awaken from this dream…

_There's such a fooled heart,  
Beating so fast in search of new dreams—  
A love that will last within your heart…  
I'll place the moon within your heart…_

She had never heard such a voice. It was not the smooth and perfectly inflected, impersonal tone of a classically trained tenor, nor the resounding vibrato rumble of the deepest bass…no…

This voice was baritone, and filled with passion, with raw, unchecked energy and power, with every emotion that a voice could convey. The lower notes of the song were sung with a dark, mellifluous rough edge, reminding her inexplicably of velvet sliding over the jagged broken edge of a mirror…the higher notes were touched with the most graceful ease, as the voice skimmed up to them in one effortless swoop, like a swallow taking flight into the twilight sky…

_As the pain sweeps through,  
Makes no sense for you…  
Every thrill has gone,  
Wasn't too much fun at all!  
But I'll be there for you…  
As the world falls down…_

The song was a waltz. (1)

She _had_ heard it before, in the childhood that had once been hers, and now seemed so very distant…She had gone to the _carnivale_ with her Papa, who had held her hand tightly and let her see the wonders of that wondrously festive place…she remembered the colours now, whirling and bright…the sparkling showers of pure light that fell from the night sky with chaotic noise…costumed figures, arrayed in jewel tones, gold and silver, black and white, dancing to the melody on a smoothly rounded floor.

Once, she'd had a little musical box…

Her father had bought the delicate toy for her, after she had begged and wheedled at him for it, for hours…on its top, there had been a pair of dancers, a man and a woman who were dressed like those people on the dance floor, at the carnival…when the box's tiny golden key was turned, the pair would begin to turn, slowly, moving round and round together in a dance that never changed, to the music that was theirs…

_I'll paint you mornings of gold,  
I'll spin you Valentine evenings—  
Though we're strangers 'till now,  
We're choosing the path between the stars…  
I'll leave my love between the stars…_

_As the pain sweeps through,  
Makes no sense for you…  
Every thrill has gone,  
Wasn't too much fun at all!  
But I'll be there for you…  
As the world falls down…_

_But I'll be there for you…_

_As the world falls down…_

The music faded, growing softer and softer, until she began to hear the echoes of its melody in the darkness: like wind-chimes made of glasses, gently ringing and filling the air with their shimmering silvery sound.

_Like crystal breaking…_

The illusion shattered, and alarm resounded in her head, like an explosion. Light split the darkness, lightning piercing into her clouded mind with horrifying reality—

_Wait!_

Christine's eyes snapped open in an instant, and she inhaled sharply, the breath strangling in her throat. With a faint cry that was half-smothered by panic, she moved hastily in a rash attempt to sit up. Her head spun, sending spiraling waves of sickening pain down into the pit of her stomach, and then back upon again into her skull, where they pealed with an agonizing ache.

She opened her eyes, in spite of it all.

All around her was dark: so dark, in fact, that she could only see the very vaguest outlines of her surroundings. She was somewhere within a shadowy room, and she was resting atop the softest mattress that she had ever felt, lying amidst a sea of cool satin sheets. Her heart pounding furiously in her chest, hammering as though it wished to escape its suddenly wearisome confinement there, Christine pushed her elbows against the bed, raising herself off the mattress.

But then…

Hands—warm, large, and powerful, with skin too smooth to be that of any normal human—caught her, and wound gently but inexorably around her upper arms. They pushed lightly against her shoulders, and then there was a palm, moving to rest against her forehead, just below the peak of her hairline. Christine closed her eyes…

"Shh…" a man's voice said.

It was the voice that had sung to her.

"It's all right, _mon cheri_…you are all right, have no fear, have no fear," it crooned, in the gentlest, most soothing tones that had ever graced her ears. Her heart's pounding subsided to a mere fluttering, yet still she could not catch her breath.

_Oh! Let me breathe!_

"Be still, pretty one...you have had a nasty shock," the voice continued, after a moment. Deft fingers skillfully threaded themselves into her tangled masses of hair, massaging against her scalp so that she felt almost lulled into calmness again. "You fell, and almost hurt yourself…you'll have a nasty headache now, with that bump on your head, but that is all. You must rest, _petite cheri, ma belle princesse_…lie still and be quiet for now…there is nothing to worry about…"

She did as she was commanded, and was silent.

Well, apparently, she'd fainted—somehow or another—and then they had managed to get into the attic, and retrieve her, she supposed. Now she was likely back in the dormitory again, in her own bed, and the man who was with her was, perhaps, a doctor. He _had_ said that she had received a blow to her head when she had fallen…

_No._

She wasn't in the dormitory. She wasn't in the opera house at all. Her bed in the opera house was narrow and hard, and her sheets were made of thin cotton that scratched against her tender skin and never kept her warm. This bed was huge, stretching out far beyond her arm's reach on either side…its sheets were made of satin…and the room was warm, and held a faint fragrance of fresh-bloomed roses, and springtime, with an undercurrent of far more exotic spices that were unknown to her…

And the fingers that were even now tangled in her hair certainly did not belong to the hands of any Parisian doctor.

Immediately, she came to life again.

Scrambling like a madwoman to get away from him…it…whoever, whatever it was that now held her captive, she found her traitorous eyes latched into the darkness, staring in both terror and panic.

Who could it be? She couldn't see anything! Was it Jacques and his cronies again? Had the cruel boys discovered her unconscious form in the attic and desired to continue their cruel game with her? Or—was it someone else entirely?

But no one she knew had a voice such as this!

No one she knew had such a _touch_—!

Her bare feet landed on a plush, velvety surface, and she desperately backed away from the edge of the bed, stumbling a bit as she trod upon the trailing hem of her gown. Trembling from head to foot in abject terror, she stared with wild dark eyes into the fathomless shadows. She could neither see her surroundings, nor her captor—whomever and whatever he was. Her vision was swirling and her mind was numb…

"Who _are_ you?" she breathed.

But only a long, horrible moment of silence met her then, as her companion—rescuer or abductor, friend or murderer—faced her in the dark, and they somehow stared into one another's eyes, even through the impenetrable shadows.

"Don't be afraid…" came the voice, very soft and musical.

She took a lurching step away from him, again: her heart hammering within her breast, as the figure reached out his hand to her, moving very, very slowly. Her throat felt as if it was closing up, and her lungs were on fire. Suddenly, a surface brushed against her back—and this time, it wasn't the waist-high solidity of a table or the cool flatness of a wall. It was soft and flexible.

And it didn't hold her up at all as she mistakenly rested her weight against it.

She lost her balance, and found that she was falling past that dense softness, and onto something that was behind it. Pale orange light suddenly flooded the room, and she realized that she'd leaned against a set of curtains—and now her back was pressed against a veritable wall of many-paned windows.

_Light._

There was a swift, blurred gesture from the man—if it was a man—who stood in the room before her, and then, suddenly, glowing orbs of warm amber light appeared, all around. She could see into the chamber, then; the hundred of tiny lights were flames atop tall, cream-coloured taper candles, which were set into several large, ornate golden candelabras. It was a beautiful room: lush and opulent, hung with velvet and silk and brocade, and she could see a number of alcove-like spaces within the walls. Perhaps these were doors that led out of the chamber.

All this she took note of in less than a moment.

Her eyes almost instantly riveted themselves on the other living occupant of the enormous _bedchamber_—

And then she gasped, as she _recognized _his face. (2)

_It's impossible!_ flew through her mind.

But sight outweighed logic.

"You're him," she breathed. "You're the Goblin King!"

The man inclined his head to one side, in recognition of her words, and his eyes—which were bi-coloured, she realized, and looked at her from behind an ivory mask that strangely resembled a skull—met her own. A tiny, cold little smirk played about his handsomely-formed lips, and his eyes sparkled with some sort of dark mirth.

Then he bowed to her, with the reverence that a king might afford to a queen.

"Welcome to the Labyrinth, Mademoiselle Daae."

Suddenly everything started whirling around her again—

And Christine promptly swooned to the plush carpeted floor.

The Goblin King moved quickly, and caught her before she landed; then, gathering her into his arms, he cast a brief, wondering glance at the masses of shimmering mahogany curls that fell from the maiden's head over his shoulder. Well, apparently he wasn't so good at charming young ladies as he was at be-spelling goblins and unfortunately doomed trespassers into the Labyrinth…

That would have to be remedied.

As for now…

_There was much to be done._

"Such a pity…" he murmured.

He'd had such grand hopes for the evening…

* * *

_(1) "As the World Falls Down" is not really a waltz, as anyone who has seen the movie Labyrinth will very well know. Buuuuut…make a few alterations to the tempo, and play around with the rhythm of the beats and such…and you can alter it into a waltz, which is I've done here, for the sake of the purposes of the story._

_(2) You might be asking how she can "recognize" him, if they've never met before. I'll explain how in the next chapter, but for now, let's just say that it's because she's read the Labyrinth story several times, and has become very familiar with the description of the infamous Goblin King. This man who is now facing her…looks like the Goblin King as she imagines him, down to the last detail. And her edition of the Labyrinth book was illustrated—something our Goblin King had a_

_hand in, too, so the illustrations and descriptions would look like him, then…_

_And speaking of our Phantom Prince/Goblin King's appearance…I really haven't described him yet, have I? All part of a purpose. Aren't you just dying to know what he looks like? As for now, though…he is NOT Gerard Butler wearing 80's clothing, let me just say that. But he's not David Bowie with spiky hair and eye makeup either. Perhaps the VOICE, though…_

_Anyhow, I'm inspired to write more of this now...perhaps I'll have time to continue, provided school and work don't get to me first. My one art history paper is almost out of the way right now--and that's one paper off a list of four! So...I think I'm getting along, finally...maybe..._


	7. Impossible, Improbable, Impeccable

**_Chapter Five:_**

**_Impossible, Improbable, Impeccable_**

**_A Chapter in which our fair heroine,_**

**_--Christine Daae--_**

**_meets an Old Friend, Is Introduced to the Goblins, Discovers More Magic, _**

**_and _**

**_Shrieks, Screeches, and-or Jumps_****_On Several Occasions._**

****

* * *

**__**

_It's only forever…_

_Not long at all!_

_The lost and the lonely…_

_That's Underground…_

**_Underground_**_…_

* * *

With a strangled gasp, Christine opened her eyes and flew up in the bed. Then, with wild eyes, she looked left—right—all around herself, her chest heaving

_Oh no…_

She had been hoping that it had all been simply a very, very bad dream—the tapestry-hung walls, the willow-like golden candelabras and their seeming hundreds of flickering candles, the enormous canopied bed, and heavily curtained windows. But no: there were the four posts of the bed—carved into the shapes of exotic, preening birds—and there were the five alcoves that led out of the shadowy bedchamber. There was the huge carpet of dense sable-fur that covered the floor around and beneath the bed. There was the gorgeous domed ceiling with its swirling, seashell-like pattern.

It wasn't a dream.

Even though it was fantastical, even though it was improbable, even though it was simply and inescapably impossible…she, Christine Daae, had wished herself away to the Goblin King and his Labyrinth. And he had come for her, and brought her to his realm, because that was what the Goblin King was sworn to do: steal away from the world those who were unwanted. Or rather…those who didn't want the world.

She was here, within the Labyrinth that she had only imagined before—in the castle of the master of shadows, tricks, and unpredictability, the Goblin King himself. She hadn't truly believed that he could be real, before. Part of her had wanted to believe; but most of her knew that such a thing was never to be. Magic, goblins, and sorcerer-kings were a thing of fairy tales, not reality. A crystal-wielding enchanter could no more exist in the world of bustling, noisy Paris than a fish could exist in the clouds.

Yet here she was.

She'd wished herself away.

It was real. It wasn't a bad dream. It was _real_.

Carefully, as if she thought that the very slightest movement of her body would somehow set off warning bells throughout the Goblin King's abode—

_For where else could she be?_

—Christine eased the thick, warm coverlets of the bed away from herself, turning a bit, so that she was facing the edge of the bed, and the room beyond. Biting her chapped lower lip, she considered everything for a moment. Then she timidly eased her slender legs off the mattress, stretching them towards the fur-carpeted floor.

She underestimated just how lofty the bed was, and her feet met nothing but empty, cold air. Having been about to set her feet on the floor and stand up—as she had done every other day of her life, when everything around her had been relatively _normal_—she promptly lost her sense of equilibrium, and, with the aid of the slippery satin sheets—

Well, she promptly fell off the bed.

She hit the floor with a tiny, startled yelp—but fortunately, the fur rug was thick and soft, and her landing wasn't quite painful. Still, the shock of the impact to her backside _was_ a bit rough, and so she sat precisely where she was for a moment: unmoving, her long white gown billowed around her and quite dwarfing her small frame within its voluminous length.

Of course, sitting on the floor provided her a whole new view of the room, and she took the opportunity to once again survey her surroundings.

Everything here looked exactly as it had in the stylized, medieval etching-like illustrations of her Labyrinth book: the walls and floors were composed of stone, and all the tapestries were rich and dark, hanging so perfectly swathed that a poet might have declared them sheer genius. The taper candles had slowly burnt down, and now there was globs of white wax dripping down onto the candelabras' arms—though there was no trace of wax on the immaculate golden-tan stone of the floor. It was all very lovely and ambient, from the bed itself to the exquisite patterns that whirled over the molding in the walls and ceiling. There was darkness here—but it was a beautiful, desirable kind of darkness, sumptuous and opulent as only a king could afford.

The King.

The Goblin King.

Christine's eyes widened, and she slowly stood up, turning to once again survey the five alcoves that stood like sentinels around the room.

Which of these doors would lead her out of the chamber? Which of the shadows would prove to hold some other living being—where had he chosen to conceal himself? She wasn't stupid; she remembered that she had fainted, upon having realized the identity of her captor, and she knew that the only way that she could have gotten back to the bed…was if he had carried her there himself, or commanded someone or something else to do so for him. And he wasn't here now; or if he _was_, she certainly couldn't see him.

It appeared that she was very much alone.

Christine shivered suddenly, feeling very lost and very frightened.

For all she knew, she and the Goblin King were the only living creatures in the place, and if she had recalled the story correctly, the only place in the Labyrinth that looked like…_this_…was the Goblin King's sinisterly magnificent abode—

The Castle Beyond the Goblin City.

"No…" she murmured to herself, out loud.

The sound of her own voice startled her at first, seeming loud and sudden in the looming silence of the expansive bedchamber.

But, then again, it was nice to hear _something_. The absolute quiet was more than heavy—it was oppressive, and almost suffocating, and she was entirely unused to anything but the loud and continual blurring of noise that existed in the opera house.

No…if she was indeed within the castle beyond the Labyrinth, then she was most assuredly not alone. Even if the Goblin King was not there himself, there would be goblins…somewhere. She shuddered at the thought of that. Some of the goblins in the fairy tale had been comical, and some had been almost kind. But there were others that were nasty, stupid, and malicious—and she didn't at all wish to run across _their_ sort.

She eyed the five alcoves again.

One of them—perhaps _more_ than one—contained a door, and that door just _might_ lead her out of the room. Or perhaps there _were_ no doors. One never knew with the castle of the Goblin King. She remembered that much from the book.

So, leaving the room immediately was not such a grand idea.

Curiosity overwhelmed her despair—for Christine was still a very young girl, and the unknown and the mysterious held great interest for her—and she crossed the room, to the veritable wall of curtains that hung there. They were dark purple velvet, with crisscrossing lavender embroidery at their hem: each cross of the latticework studded with either a pale topaz gemstone, or a gleaming white pearl.

Putting up one hand—then both—Christine pushed the heavy curtains aside. Again, light flooded into the room through the many-paned windows.

But it wasn't a normal kind of light.

It was a pale orange light.

What she saw beyond the window was bizarre, yet breathtaking. Immediately below her perch, she could see nothing but a huge stretch of breathtakingly flawless gardens: the castle grounds, as she guessed. On either side of her window unfolded wing upon wing, roof upon roof, tower upon tower of the immense castle, going on until she could see no further. The gardens were enclosed by a spike-rimmed wall—_No one scales in, and no one climbs out,_ she thought, morosely—and beyond that wall?

Beyond the wall lay the seemingly boundless Labyrinth itself.

It was just as twisted, just as intricate and spectacular, just as excruciatingly bewildering and just as incalculably majestic as the book had ever described it to be—yet it was unbelievably even more so, and certainly more so than she had ever been able to imagine. The sight of it nearly made her feel faint.

Above the Labyrinth was the dome of the sky, and it was—as the book had said—a peculiar, tawny shade of tangerine. It wasn't blue, like the sky in her world. It was orange, and the colour of it was reflected marvelously on the walls of the castle, and the Labyrinth itself. Everything seemed to be covered in a thick coating of sparkling dust: even the ebony panes of her windows shimmered prettily.

But the panes suddenly reminded her of prison bars.

And she remembered, at once, what the Goblin King was sworn to do, when he was called by the foolish mortals: his power invoked by their words.

_

* * *

_

_Phantom Prince, Goblin King,_

_Wherever you may be,_

_Take this awful life of mine_

_Far away from me!_

_"I shall take what you have offered," said the Goblin King._

_"And henceforth, sweet foolish child, _

_it__ shall no longer be your own—_

_But mine, and my own,_

_In my Castle beyond the Goblin City."_

* * *

She had wished that he would come and take her.

Her wish had come true.

Obligingly, he had come to her, and had stolen her away from her world, and from the life that she had so reviled. And now she was his possession—for the Goblin King owned what he was given, and would not break with it for eternity.

_What have I done…?_

Meg…Mme. Giry…her life at the opera house…her world…she had just wished for all that to be taken away, and now she would be given a lifetime—_an eternity!_—of imprisonment within the Goblin King's castle. She belonged to him. She had wished herself away to him, and now he would keep her. He kept all of his winnings.

Christine's stomach lurched, and her eyes burned with tears. She turned away from the window, suddenly unable to bear the sight of the beautiful but now condemning sight of the Labyrinth. It was no longer a glory to behold—but a prison, and a prison that she had wished upon herself. Clutching one hand to her churning stomach, she leaned against the window: staring hard at the floor as her vision blurred.

_What have I done?_

There was no taking it back.

Before she could think upon this any more, however—something abruptly interrupted her. A door slammed, from somewhere within the shadowy alcoves, and she jumped, startled. She looked up, her eyes wide and fearful, and looked into the recesses of the room. Footsteps—succinct and measured, clipping sharply against the stone floor—came nearer and nearer, yet she saw no one. Her heart in her throat, she managed to stammer, tremulously—

"Who—who's there?"

She was not given an answer immediately, though the footsteps seemed to draw nearer, at first—then they faded away—and returned again.

Mustering all the remaining shreds of her courage, Christine pushed herself away from the wall, and took one, then two tentative steps into the centre of the room. With quavering hands, she smoothed her straggling curls away from her face, and called again: this time with greater steadiness of tone—

"Who's there? Who are you?"

The door in the far right alcove creaked open, and Christine fell back a step, her bravura dissipating somewhat in trepidation towards whomever or whatever might reveal itself behind that door. But she saw only darkness for a moment—then, as her eyes focused on that darkness, she made out the murkiest outline of a tall, slender, but most definitely feminine figure, which stood just beyond the reach of the candlelight.

She heard a loud, unhappy sigh.

"Ah, _cherie_…" said a strangely familiar, peculiarly accented voice: alto-toned, and husky, reminiscent of smoke and silver. Christine's eyes began to widen, her face paling once more, as the voice of her mysterious visitor continued, "What has he done?"

Then the figure moved into the light—

And Christine's mouth mad a perfect, wide O.

"_Mme. Giry_!" she burst out.

* * *

The ballet mistress—who was garbed in a very unusual, antiquated gown of black velvet, which almost seemed as if it would have fit into the times of Queen Elizabeth and the Bard himself—stepped fully into the room, and sent her former pupil and charge a severely disapproving look.

"Christine!" she admonished. "Shrieking is _highly_ unladylike, child, as is gaping openmouthed like a fish. Where are your manners?"

Self-effaced, Christine immediately snapped her mouth shut.

Mme. Giry then halted a few paces into the room, and rested her slender alabaster hands atop the rounded head of her cane: seeming as if she was completely at ease in her Elizabethan gown, as if she walked around in goblin- and magic-riddled castles every day of her life. And…somehow…the ballet mistress looked…

Very different.

Christine gasped anew, as she caught sight of the most noticeable change.

"Mme. Giry!" she breathed. "You have—"

The black-garbed woman reached up, and gently touched the fingertips of one elegant hand to the delicately pointed tip of her right ear. A cool, almost smirk-like smile curved her dark red lips then, and she replied—

"Pointed ears? Yes—I am an_ elf_, Christine Daae."

Christine could only stare, for a moment.

Then…

"I…I think that I need to sit down…" she muttered, and did so, reaching behind herself to slowly find the edge of the bed's high mattress and pull herself up onto it.

Mme. Giry watched as the pale-faced girl situated herself on the bed: taking full note of her widened eyes and very, very shocked and disbelieving expression. _It **was** a lot to take in all at once…_ she reflected.

After all, it wasn't every day that one learned that there was a world of magic beyond the world of the mundane, and that there really were such creatures as goblins and elves in the world, that ballet mistresses and mother figures could conceal magical secret identities, and that…yes…even powerful, mask-wearing sorcerer-kings existed. She allowed Christine a moment to recover, and then she spoke.

"I imagine that you are very much in need of some explanations now, aren't you, Christine Daae…?"

A pause, and she smiled again: that cool, almost smirk.

"Then I shall tell you the tale. It begins with the Goblin King…"

* * *

By the time that Mme. Giry had completed her tale and Christine had exhausted all of the questions that she herself could possibly think to ask, the orange sky had darkened into a fiery shade of umber, and the light of the candles seemed to have grown brighter, in the face of the greater shadows.

Mme. Giry, at length, stood up from the wing-backed armchair that she had seated herself in, for the duration of the tale; her heavy velvet skirts falling perfectly into place around her, she crossed to the window and pushed the curtains further aside—gazing serenely out over the Labyrinth.

As the ballet mistress did not speak, Christine again felt the need to fill in the curious silence with words. So she fiddled with the elaborate bed-coverlet for a moment: her nimble fingers moving in quick, anxious movements over the raised embroidery on the blanket. Then she spoke, in a low and apprehensive voice.

"Why did you come to find me, Mme. Giry?"

The older woman turned around immediately, when she had heard those words, and now her elegant face was lined with care: her eyes shadowed by worry. Returning to her former pupil's side, she placed a gentle, motherly hand on Christine's pale cheekbone. Her silky alto voice was compassionate as she said—

"Oh, Christine—poor, precious child! I am as much a part of the magical world as the Goblin King or any of his subjects might be! And though no one of _your_ world knows it, I come here often. For I knew him: the Goblin King…I knew him as well as _anyone_ could, I think…when he was much younger. Over time, I have returned here, every so often, to look in on him—and I have kept watch over his doings, ever since he first set his eye upon _you_, because I _knew_ what was bound to happen."

She paused; Christine shivered.

"…And now he has brought you here—what sort of harsh, remorseless sort of soul would I prove myself to have, if I did not come to find you? I know the Goblin King, Christine Daae…and I know what befalls his prisoners: those he takes from their unwanted worlds. I would not forgive myself if I did not come to your aid now."

Wild hope fluttered in Christine's chest, then: beating against her insides with frenzied and desperate energy. Eyes alight with incredulous joy, she stood up from the bed, and reached her hands out to the black-garbed she-elf.

"Then—then you can help me? You know how I can escape?"

But Mme. Giry shook her head, hazel eyes darkening once more.

"Alas…no, I cannot, Christine," she replied, in as sad and regretful a tone as Christine had ever heard her use. "For the rules of the magic in this world are unbreakable—the Goblin King keeps what he takes, if it is willingly given. And you _did_ wish yourself to be here, did you not?"

"_I wish that the goblins **would** come and take me away…right now…"_

Yes, those had been her very words.

Christine shuddered then, and suppressed the urge to put her face in her hands and weep: sob, wail, for all the world to hear. Yet even as the scalding tears once more burned her eyes—remorseful tears of her own guilt, hopeless tears of her impossible predicament—she did not cry, and instead faced the ballet mistress with admirable calm.

"Then…it is hopeless. I shall remain here, forever."

But then a faint glint appeared in Mme. Giry's eyes, and she held up one hand: the jet beading on the cuff of her sleeve sparkling brilliantly in the candlelight.

"Ah, but perhaps it is _not_ hopeless, young Christine!" was her reply. "For, as you will soon learn…_nothing_ is what it seems to be, in this Labyrinth. You have your wits; _use_ them, child. Use them, and find a way to play the Goblin King's game. Many have failed at it, and have thus become ensnared here—and now they are doomed to serve his will forever. But…if you defeat him at his own game…_you_ will command _him_."

Christine felt her brow furrow, in fear and confusion.

"But…Mme. Giry…" she protested, breathlessly. "He is a _sorcerer_! He has great powers, and commands the Labyrinth's magic—at a word from him, night may alter into day, and chasms appear where doors once stood! I cannot possibly hope to play him in any way—it is impossible! I have invoked his power…and the book said…"

Mme. Giry pursed her lips, and shook her head, suddenly, as if flippantly brushing off the rules of the Labyrinth. She even gave a bit of a scoff.

"…The_ book_?" she questioned. "_Fie_ on the book, Christine Daae! It tells the story of the Labyrinth and its master—but it does not govern it! The Goblin King will _not_ be governed! But if you can defeat him, his powers are yours."

"How?" Christine implored, plaintively. "How am I to defeat him? It cannot be! I don't even know—"

Mme. Giry stepped forward then, and caught the young woman's wildly gesticulating hands in her own. Then, she put her own hand beneath Christine's chin, and tipped her face up, so that the two of them could look one another in the eye. A warm, vaguely reassuring smile now sat upon her dark red lips.

"Child…" said the she-elf, in the tone that Christine had often heard her use when speaking to little Meg. "Nothing is as it seems here…and that is what you must remember. No matter _what_ you are told by anyone here, you must believe that. Rules can be bent, here…reality may be twisted, without being broken. But you must learn to use your mind, and rely not on what you _see_, but what you _feel_. Trust your intuition—trust both your heart _and_ your mind—for by themselves, they will only confuse you, and lead you astray. Do not allow him to trick you! Be cunning, and clever! Charm him, and perhaps you will find that all is not as impossible as it could have been."

"But what can I do, Mme. Giry…?" Christine implored, clinging to the she-elf's hands with a frantic, almost child-like desperation. "How can I face this alone? How can I…"

And here she inhaled sharply, her face growing ashen at her newest thought.

"How can I possibly face _him_? He is…"

"Man-_like_, if not of _mankind_," Mme. Giry stated, pragmatically. "He has his faults, as any masculine creature does. Find the loophole in his words, Christine—and he will have no choice but to do as you wish him to do."

From somewhere behind them came the delicate, silvery chiming of bells: a clock was ringing out the time. Eight bells. It was eight o'clock in the evening now.

Mme. Giry turned, and smiled wryly.

"Unfortunately, my dear girl…"

And she patted Christine on the cheekbone with a gentle hand.

"I must go now. I may only dare to stay so long in the Goblin King's realm—after a certain hour, I remain at the risk of my absence being noted in the Other World,"—referring to Paris and the Opera House, and everyone who lived within it—"Or my presence here being found distasteful to the King. I will take my leave of you."

Christine caught at her hand, hysterically, as she moved away.

"You are…_leaving_ me here!"

Again, Mme. Giry winced slightly, and touched one elven ear. Then she sent the girl another one of her disapproving looks—which would have frozen Jacques Rousseau from head to foot, had it been aimed at him.

"Christine," she admonished, once more. "_Squawking_, child!"

Then, with greater warmth, she said—

"Do not worry so, my dear…the Goblin King merely keeps those whom he steals away…he doesn't eat them. In fact…"

Now her expression turned reflective.

"It is suppertime now. Doubtless, he will want to see you…"

Then she shrugged, frowning.

"I warned him to stay away from all of this…but it is too late now. We shall all have to simply wait and see where the dice fall. I will return soon, Christine—before dawn tomorrow, I give you my word. Do not fear. I am certain that it is very highly unlikely that the Goblin King will allow any harm to come to you while you are here. And you will not be left alone here for long, I'll wager. Keep a good hold on your nerves, and use your brain, child! I will look in here tomorrow."

With that, Mme. Giry snapped her fingers—

And disappeared into thin air.

Christine gasped and ran forward, staring at the empty space in the floor where her former ballet teacher and best friend's mother had just stood. This was no trick of the eyes, however: there was no concealed trapdoor in the stones of the floor. She really _had_ disappeared. There was even a thin film of sparkling magic dust ringing the spot.

A pang went through Christine's head, then, and she moaned, falling back against the side of the bed again: covering her eyes with both hands.

This really _was_ entirely _too much_…

* * *

Tap, tap, tap.

Christine dazedly raised her head, roused by the sudden noise.

Tap, tap, TAP.

There it was again.

Tap, tap.

A pause; then—

Tappity-tappity-tappity-tap. Tappity-tappity-tappity-tap. Tappity-tappity-tappity-tap—

All at once, the rhythmic little tattoo that was being beat out upon the bedchamber's door ceased. Then, suddenly, Christine heard the noises of what sounded like a rowdy scuffle between two small combatants. There were a few dull thuds, some rustling, and even several muffled exclamations—two of which caused her ears to burn bright red.

Finally, after a final "OUCH! Get your foot out o' me eye!" and a muttered "Sorry!", there was a much softer, much more discreet knock upon the door.

Christine carefully got to her feet, staring with apprehension at the closed portal.

Did she really want to answer…?

Yes, she did. She didn't like the idea of staying in the room forever.

"Um…come in?" she called, her voice wavering.

Before she had had time to properly curse her lack of bravery and her lamentable actress's skills, the door creaked open: revealing a glimpse of the torch-lit corridor that lay beyond her bedchamber-prison. Christine peered through the murky shadows, curious to see who it was that had finally come to interrupt her solitude—

And then there was an insistent tug on the skirt of her white gown.

Christine looked down.

She gasped, and screeched—quite forgetting Mme. Giry's earlier admonishment—and leapt, with cat-like alacrity, back to the safety of the enormous, tall bed. Without reaction, the two beady-eyed goblins looked first at her, and then to one another—then, as one, they shrugged, as if to say, '_Human girls—who knew?_'

Well, things might have continued at this standoff.

But they didn't.

One of the goblins—a wrinkle-faced, mop-topped little creature that looked as if it was some demented sort of rag doll—turned to its companion, and spoke. Its voice was high-pitched, raspy, and almost comical: reminding her of the boys in the opera house, and how they would sometimes try to frighten the girls by making various mannequins and puppets speak to them. Only this was a real creature—not a doll.

_Real_.

"Jumpy wench, inn't she!"

His companion—a larger, duller-looking goblin with a horned-helmet and a face that resembled a miniature hippopotamus—merely nodded in agreement, a torpid look in its tiny, rounded orbs of eyes.

In spite of her fear and shock, Christine managed to be offended by that statement, and immediately she sat up among the voluminous cushions that littered the bed's top end. She looked down upon the goblins with an imperious and livid air.

"I am _not_ a wench—I'm a _lady_! And I'll have you know that I'm not usually jumpy about _anything_—if _you_ had people bursting into your bedchamber at every hour of the day, well—_you_ would be startled too! Especially if they were goblins!"

Again, the diminutive creatures exchanged looks.

"…But we _do_ have goblins bursting into our bedchambers all day long…" offered the dull goblin, attempting to be bright for once. "They're all over da place!"

His companion elbowed him sharply.

"That's because we live in the Goblin Castle, you idiot!" it snarled.

"…but _she_ doesn't know dat…" rebutted the dull goblin.

Christine would have been perfectly content to remain in utter silence upon the massive bed, in hopes that the two bizarre creature would leave her alone again—but the smaller, smarter goblin apparently had other orders.

"Shut up!" it commanded the dull goblin after they had squabbled again for a moment. The dull goblin promptly obeyed, and his companion turned to Christine, who jumped back against the pillows again as it suddenly addressed her.

"By order of his Royal Majesty, the Phantom Prince and Goblin King, the high ruler of the Labyrinth and the sorcerer of the Goblin Castle," it informed her, authoritatively, "You are to attend supper with His Esteemed Greatness in the castle's banquet hall. Supper will be served at the hour of nine o'clock, and you are to be suitably attired—meaning that you're going to have to lose the nightgown, wench."

Christine's cheeks flamed red with anger, and she glared at the goblin.

"It is _not_ a nightgown, and I am _not_ a _wench_!" she hissed back. "That is the last time that I am going to tell you!"

The goblin shrugged, entirely indifferent to her displeasure.

"Shall his Majesty send ladies-in-waiting to attend you, or would you rather make yourself up?"

Christine hauled herself across the mattress, and slid to the ground, rising to stand at her full height—five foot, four inches, respectively—and tower imposingly over the goblins. Of course, they seemed quite unfazed.

"I shall attend my own wardrobe, thank you!" she replied, icily.

The lead goblin made a tsk-ing noise, but did not comment further on the matter.

"Suit yourself then," it told her. "But don't blame us if His Majesty makes matchsticks out of your bones when you don't come down to dinner on time, because of that stupid overgrown nightdress of yours…"

And the two creatures scampered off to the door.

Christine only just refrained from hurling one of her slippers at them; then the door swung shut, and she was alone again in the immense, echoing bedchamber. She turned, and looked around herself—one of the alcoves held the door that led out of the room, and she knew which one now.

But which alcove held the answer to her attire dilemma?

* * *

She couldn't possibly attend dinner with a King, dressed as she was—even if he was the King of the goblins, and even if he had abducted her away from her world and doubtless was now planning to hold her prisoner forever! No: the old, out-of-date costume gown that she had fancied to be so beautiful in the attic of the opera house seemed dull and wrinkled now. She would be mortified to appear before him in it.

…But _which_ door?

She skirted across the room, from the door to the alcove that was closest on the left. Within it, there was yet another door—and before her fingertips had even had enough time to touch the winding engraved vines that wound around the doorknob, the vines moved, as if they were alive, and shrank back to reveal a plain brass handle, which turned on its own. Christine jumped, again—but only a little this time—and the door swung slowly open, revealing a dark space beyond.

Within another instant, candle flames burst into existence, as if ignited by invisible hands wielding invisible matchsticks. As the light steadily brightened, the interior of the new and unknown chamber was revealed—and Christine started.

A dressing room had just revealed itself to her.

What a dressing room it was, too!

Easily much larger than the bedchamber, the entire space of the chamber seemed to be filled with all sorts of fine ladies' clothing. She saw everything from crisp linen and satin undergarments, edged with gorgeous white lace, to skirts of every possibly fashion and material, to blouses and peculiar corset-like tops and tunics—cloaks, slender and somehow feminine breeches and coats—and hundreds of eye-dazzling gowns.

Every fine and costly material that could possibly exist was here, she was certain; along with a thousand other that she had never even imagined! A veritable rainbow of colours and shades assaulted her vision, nearly blinding her with radiance and variety; jewels and ribbons and lace and ruffles and baubles hung everywhere, in a glorious conglomeration of priceless beauty and art.

And clothing wasn't the only thing that she saw: lining the walls from the floor to just a little below her waist were rows and rows of shoes, in every possible design and detail, from the simplest laced boot to the daintiest slipper with a diamond-studded heel. Interspersed between the brackets of clothing were several shelved cabinets, with velvet-lined boxes that held enough jewelry to make a queen feel faint: jewels and precious metals shimmered so brightly that Christine could barely bring herself to look at them steadily. It was…all of it…so beautiful…

Moving as if in a dream, she quietly passed down the rows of finery: gazing at everything that went by her with wide and dreamy eyes. At the very far end of the room was a curving wall of windows, which were tall and many-paned, like the window in the bedchamber. These were much thinner, though, and had no curtains; and instead of opening onto a view of the Labyrinth, they looked down upon a beautiful garden that was full of sculpted boxwood shrubberies and holly trees, with fountains and statues of white stone placed artfully about.

In front of the windows was a large, rounded dais of white stone, upon which was stood a set of three huge mirrors. Each mirror was framed in silvery carved wood, and angled perfectly towards one another. Christine hesitated for one moment, wondering if she—a bedraggled ragamuffin who was both an outsider and prisoner in this strange, magical world—ought to set foot on what was surely the sanctuary of some princess.

But there wasn't anyone else in the castle—

Aside from the Goblin King, his goblins, and herself, of course.

If a princess had once possessed these rooms, these articles of fantastical attire…it had been some time ago. It wasn't every day that the Goblin King acquired new prisoners—almost no one believed in the magic of Saying the Words enough to actually _say_ the fateful words, anymore, and so he couldn't possibly have many people…

_Oh, heavens,_ thought the chorus girl, with an irritated scowl.

She gathered the voluminous skirts of her borrowed costume gown into both hands, and marched up the steps of the dais, approaching the three mirrors. The mirrors afforded her a flawless, multi-angled view of herself—and while she couldn't say that she was very pleased by the sight of her rumpled hair, the dark circles under her eyes, or the lamentable mass of wrinkles that had been a perfectly acceptable costume gown—

Well, the mirrors were rather lovely.

She could see her entire reflection within them, from head to foot.

Tipping her head to one side, she eyed the mirrors, and considered her reflection—and several other things. Foremost in her mind was the matter of her imminent meeting with the Goblin King, and her eventual bid for freedom…her mind was still reeling with shock, unable to believe what was before her very eyes, but unable to dismiss it, as well…and then her thoughts slowly turned to her current surroundings…

_How beautiful…_

Scarcely had the image of herself dressed in one of the gowns—a gorgeous, scandalously low-cut dark crimson affair, studded with garnets and topazes, diamond and pearls—flashed through her mind when something very odd happened.

All at once, her white costume gown was gone; in its place, the dark crimson gown hung on her figure, its heavy velvet skirts shimmering with the last traces of glittering magic dust. Christine blinked, and then shrieked: startled again at the abrupt change. Even her hair had changed—no longer did it hang loose, in tousled curls about her shoulders and face. Instead, it had somehow been pulled back, and tamed into submission, so that her curls shone glossy and smooth in the candlelight, pinned back by a silver and garnet comb of some sort. Jewels of the same sort sparkled at her throat, wrists, fingers, and ears, and her eyes held a lustrous glow: their deep mahogany shade enhanced by gold-tinted kohl.

_Magic!_

Then she looked down, and saw the extent of the gown's…extravagance. Instantly, the shade of her complexion changed from ivory-pale to furious scarlet, as she ripped her eyes away from her very much exposed décolletage and hastily moved to cover herself, even though there was no other living creature in the room.

Shock, slight fear, and outrage burning in her eyes, Christine cast about herself—but _no_! Of course, there was no one in the room! This castle was _magic_—even the mirrors were magic! She had only been thinking of what she would have looked like, wearing…this_ gown_…and the magic had placed it on her!

If she so much as _looked_ at anything in the entire room, then—

She would magically become dressed in it!

"Well," she said, with prim crispness of tone to the listening castle—and all of that magic that was contained within it, "If _this_ is how you're trying to get me to hurry on my way to dinner with your King…you are to be sadly disappointed! I am not wearing this—_affront to propriety!_—to dinner, and that is _that_."

She could almost have sworn, then, that she had heard the very spirit of the castle's stones chuckling in response to her words. But she only rolled her eyes—she had expected as much—and went to seek out a much more _proper_ form of banquet dress.

Originally, she had only thought to look around the dressing room, to explore a bit. Now, it appeared that everything within the place had a mind to dress her royally for dinner with the king, and nothing she could say or do would stop that. Her white costume gown had quite disappeared; and there was no getting it back, she assumed.

And as she certainly wasn't just about to go traipsing off into the goblin-riddled castle corridors, wearing nothing more than her simple chemise…well, all of this clothing obviously belonged to no one, and it was very keen on dressing her.

It seemed that she had no choice in the matter.

_Magic—indeed!_

* * *

_A/N: And it appears that Erik is up to his dirty little tricks already...oh, the delicious evilness of it all! _

_Here I bring a brand new chapter--all ten pages of it, if you cared to know--that is mostly filler-action, and not much E/C interaction. That is coming soon, as are some familiar yet strange new characters. It's mostly Labyrinth at the moment, and not much Phantom...but we'll be seeing more of a mix soon. I just wanted to give you a good, solid vision of what the Goblin King's beautiful Castle looks like. Because you'll be needing that later on._

_**AngelMusic**: (smacks head on computer desk) I know, I know, my French is horrid beyond imagination...do forgive me..._

_**xAngelxOfxMusicx**: Definitely no mullets here, I promise you that. And as far as your vision of the Phantom Prince goes...yes...you pretty much have it. Oops! Did I say that out loud? Gosh darn it, I keep giving all of my secrets away. (sly smirk)_

_**Mianne**: Ah-haha, you figured out my evil secret! Yes, I did only add a bit on to the end of the chapter, but that's because I didn't like where I originally ended it. And I just had to get that "Such a pity..." line in there sometime. It's one of Jareth's staple quotes in the movie. I hope this chapter satisfies your hunger for more brand new chapter content? I'll be adding more soon, too...unless work-school-and-or-my-pseudo-LIFE prevent me from writing properly..._

_**Miss Mary Lou**: Well, I haven't written a sad ending yet, in all my other stories...but we'll see about it this time. I mean, we all know how the movie Labyrinth turned out for poor Jareth... (evil grin)We shall see, we shall see..._

_In the meantime, a big whopping thanks to all of my oh-so-completelyluverly readers and reviewers! (hugs you all) It makes my day to hear from you! Oh! And in the meantime...exciting news...I'm in a Phantom art contest, on phantom fans . net, the Phantom Thru the Ages contest. The aim was to put the Phantom characters into period costume (Present time, Medieval, Ancient Greek, 80's, etc.) and I was one of the artists who submitted artwork to the contest. Hop on by, and see the drawings! They're all quite spectacular! Mine were given under the user name Mme. le Fantome (my name on the board), and are titled "Punk-Goth!Erik" and "Love and Music are Forever"._

_The link:_

_www . phantom fans . net / board / index . php ? show topic 14528_

_Tell me what you think!_

_Ta._


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